


jammie dodgers and the meaning of love

by simplyclockwork



Category: Doctor Who BBC
Genre: F/M, Fluff, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:44:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and River return to River's cell after a night of site-seeing. A guard is annoyed. Prompt fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	jammie dodgers and the meaning of love

The guard making his rounds wasn’t in the least bit shocked when he saw the empty cell. Rather, he was almost resigned to the fact of it. As it were, it seemed that every time he was called to make rounds, the cell was empty at least once a week, sometimes twice. He often wondered why they bothered to keep the woman here at all: elusive as smoke, and slippery as an eel with the sharp cunning of a fox, the prisoner of this specific cell was just about as much a captive as he, it seemed. High security or not, River Song was not an easy woman to keep caged. He could only assume the prison executives counted themselves lucky for the fact that she always seemed to come back on her own—and, according to the woman herself, she only left when it was absolutely ‘needed’.

Whether she returned or not was of no consequence to the guard himself. However, he still patiently waited for the day when she _didn’t_ return. He knew it would come, must in fact be close. He was no idiot to the fact that you can only keep such a flighty creature under lock and key for so long, before it breaks free and strays too far past the line, and finds itself lost.

As he meandered his way around the circular, curving prison hall, his wandering thoughts were broken by a strange sound—much like the screech of brakes, yet oddly… _futuristic_ , with a gentle, eerie whooshing sound, almost like wind, but not quite, playing through the screech like a discordant melody. He paused, frowning as he looked back the way he’d come, and then forward again. And he started, his eyes opening wide as something blue and rectangular seemed to materialize onto the grey concrete a few feet from where he stood.

The TARDIS—the Doctor? Here, at the prison, at such an hour as this? A slight frown marred the security guard’s features, and he rested a hand on his security weapon, watching as the time machine gained clarity and shape, the strange landing sounds fading into the heavy air.

The guard waited, head cocked, fingers curling around his weapon, before the heavy blue door banged open, and out stepped a rather flushed looking River Song. At her heels followed the Doctor himself, his hair mussed, and his bowtie crooked at his throat.

“Well, perhaps I do leave the brakes on, but it’s a _TARDIS_ , not a _car_ ; how do you know it’s not _supposed_ to make that noise!” The Time Lord was arguing quickly with the woman at his side, and she was shaking her head with a fond little smile.

“Sweetie, _nothing_ is meant to be flown or driven or used with the brakes on—brakes mean stop, not go, you daft man. What kind of design would it be to have something move with the brakes on, honestly.”

The Time Lord huffed in disagreement and threw his hands up, before shooting the guard a grin as he caught sight of him. He straightened his jacket, and waved grandly at his companion, one long-fingered hand running through his flattened hair.

“Hello there! Don’t mind us, just dropping in—well, _I’m_ dropping in, rather. _She’s_ staying; rather past curfew for her, I’d say, wouldn’t you!” The time-travelling man spoke in quick, meandering sentences, words rushing headlong into each other as his eyes darted here and there, all the while with that sloppy grin on his face which seemed almost childish in its joy.

“Y-yes, Doctor, sir.” The guard said slowly, tilting his head in a slight nod. His eyes shifted to the woman standing beside the TARDIS, her hands quick as she patted her curly hair into place, fingers straightening a silver-sheen dress about her waist.

“Never mind with the sirs and the misters and the like, my friend, they’re just silly, and, to be blunt, boring, really. Who wants to be called sir? Not me, that’s for sure. Stuffy title, too stuffy.” He caught the guard’s look, and nodded briskly. “Just been to Venice, we have.” The Doctor explained, taking River’s arm in his and leading her towards the cell. “Lovely place, Venice. Always better in the moonlight, perfect for a gondola ride, such reflections on the water and such.” The man waved a hand, still grinning, and the woman beside him merely shook her head.

“Such a child you are.” She said, and tilted her head back to the guard with a wave. “No need to hang about. I’ll see myself back to my cell, don’t you worry.” She twiddled her fingers at him and allowed herself to be pulled back to her prison by the time-travelling man in a brown, tweed-jacket.

The guard hovered in the hall a moment longer, then decided to hell with it; when it came to this particular prisoner, his presence was neither needed nor important. If it ever came down to a fight between the two of them, he knew who would win—and it wasn’t anyone from the prison, he could assure that. He hesitated a bit longer in apprehension of the Doctor’s safety, however. But, when he leaned his head into the cell, he saw nothing more dangerous than a plate of cookies between the two, their heads bent as they whispered like conspiring children in the middle of planning some great plot.

Those two—they were just the same. Their attitudes were such as a care-free adrenaline junkie set on risking his life in all possible ways, that it sometimes left the guard feeling strangely drained. He was never able to understand how one could live on the edge for so long, and not fear the inevitable fall—or the jagged rocks below.

He shook his head; he should know better than to worry about a 900-year-old Time Lord. If he had made it this far, the man couldn’t be stupid enough to hang about a convicted criminal in a high-security prison, and not be certain of his safety.

As he executed an about-face in preparation of finishing his rounds, he faintly caught the low, easy sound of the Doctor’s voice.

“Another Jammie Dodger, my dear? They’re the best of cookies—if such a thing exists. Seeing as all cookies are the best, I guess they’re the best of the best, and that makes them perfect for breaking into jail—if one wishes to do such a thing, although I would think that there are many that do. Unless they’re an odd sort—like you: you’re an odd sort. But so am I, I guess, so I think that’s quite alright, us being odd sorts together, don’t you think?”


End file.
